Hello folks, and welcome back to Wrong Every Time. Today I’m trying something a little different from our usual fare, building off my recent articles on the continuing adventures of Vox Machina. A few readers have expressed interest in reflections on my own misadventures with tabletop gaming, and so that’s what I’d like to bring you today: an earnest, undoubtedly embarrassing look into my own attempt at collaborative storytelling, complete with both the original text I was working off and my own retrospective reflections on how it all went down. If that doesn’t sound like your jam, don’t worry, I’ll be back to our regularly scheduled reviews and essays next time. But if you are interested in tabletop storytelling, or at least eager to laugh at how bad I am at it, feel free to stick around!

So, our story begins with my house’s previous campaign running out of steam. Having secured an experienced dungeon master as our latest of rotating roommates, myself and three other housemates were all eager to embark on an adventure. Our experience at this point was minimal – I’d personally played in roughly half a dozen prior sessions scattered across a decade, and my fellow players had experienced perhaps a session each. Over the course of that first campaign, we all gained a far greater understanding of what specifically we wanted out of D&D, which in turn kinda sorta tore the campaign apart. With mismatched desires only solidifying well into the campaign, it was clear we’d need a reset – and given my own love of storytelling and desire to build characters people could really believe in, I was eager to volunteer as our next dungeon master.

Based on that self-description, I’m sure the more experienced veterans among you are already labeling me a “difficult player.” And it’s true – I bring the same hunger for genuinely fulfilling stories to D&D that I bring to any art experience, meaning at least setting me as the DM would force me to put up or shut up. But in truth, virtually all players will favor some aspects of D&D over others, so let’s get into the specific desires of my player pool. Keep in mind, I had never DMed for any of these people before, so my understanding of their play needs was far shakier at the time than what I now offer you. In light of that, please think kindly of me in spite of all the ways I fuck up in fulfilling those desires.

I’ll be referring to my players by their character names up until the point where that gets too confusing, at which point I’ll figure something else out.

Player One: Dante Goodburger, Tiefling Sorcerer

A tiefling touched by the gods, suspending him between infernal and celestial influences. As you can probably tell by his last name, Dante’s not big into personal histories – in fact, the conflict described in that last sentence basically sums up his character’s preexisting relationship with this world, while he visually described himself as “just Tom Ellis in Lucifer.” In spite of that, Dante is the closest I have to a player-side ally, confidently steering the party with his ease in verbally contributing and clear understanding of narrative structure, while also helping me design new items and mechanics on the backend. Dante’s the dude I generally screen and discuss movies with, so we’re on pretty similar wavelengths in terms of storytelling. His particular area of fascination is the mastery of mechanical systems: Dante wants to push his class’s abilities in clever and powerful directions, meaning it’s up to me to ensure that desire is satisfied without his character outclassing his companions (something Dante himself understands as a problem, prompting his selection of the relatively underpowered Sorcerer class).

Player Two: Garu, Human Rogue

A human with no memory of his past, who seems to have been trained as an assassin during the period he cannot recall. Garu described his intended character as “a combination of Cloud Strife and Sekiro,” and I did my best (alongside some key support from Dante) to make that a reality both in story and mechanics. Garu is the quietest of our players, but generally shares my appreciation for a combination of comedy, tragedy, and horror, meaning their investment rides heavily on my ability to keep the other players from getting off-track and keeping the external drama interesting. A smoothly running, dramatically satisfying session makes for a happy Garu (though they also enjoy combat and infiltration missions, where mechanical methods of interaction circumvent the need for stressful character acting).

Player Three: Arachne, Arachnotaur Ranger

A half-elf from a noble family, who was born with a congenital defect ensuring she could never walk. Her parents made a pact with some ancient creature of the forest, resulting in her current half-spider form. Arachne was the dungeon master of our previous campaign, and as you can tell by their complicated backstory, they’ve participated in too many campaigns to be content with your average halfling rogue. Like me, Arachne is most invested in the narrative aspect of a campaign, though their interests run more in a worldbuilding-focused direction than my own character-focused preference. Fortunately, in D&D, the two can easily intertwine – Arachne’s noble status gives them a history within this land, meaning the more we engage with this region’s major noble and political actors, the more Arachne will be called upon to do what she does best.

Player Four: Jarric, Lobster-Humanoid Paladin

A vaguely defined lobster man who came from the sea, preaching the gospel of an equally vaguely defined sea god. Our proud chaos agent, who prefers a sandbox, improv approach to D&D, and is prone to confronting NPCs with any manner of antisocial behavior. Jarric is also far and away the most boisterous and easily distracted of my players, necessitating careful mediation to keep things on track and avoid overwhelming the other party members. At the same time, he’s also always eager to contribute, meaning there are never any lulls in the action with Jarric around.

I tend to believe that great stories are built outwards from the great characters that are their soul, and thus attempted to build a metanarrative that would naturally satisfy all of my players’ desires, while also giving me lots of fun non-player characters to mess around with. When asked what I personally wanted from this campaign, my answer was “I’m going to try my best to build a drama worth caring about, and I hope you respect that by earnestly engaging with it.” Aside from that, my main intent was to create a story that builds vertically, events piling on top of each other towards a grand conclusion where both the main NPCs and the very land they’re fighting for feel meaningful, people and places the players have come to care for.

As such, I decided to go with a “winds of war” narrative structure, allowing the players to build a relationship with a specific region and its people before throwing them into mortal conflict. Not wanting to build an entire world for a project that could easily collapse in a month, I stuck with The Forgotten Realms’ usual mortal plane of Faerun, zoning in on a region referred to as “The Dales,” just west of the Sea of Fallen Stars. I had no interest in this region’s actual in-game history, but its geographic isolation, as well as its implied scattering of adjacent city-states, seemed perfect for a story about a realm on the brink of war. As such, I tightened up its natural borders, rearranged its regions (Archendale now holds the southern seaboard, Harrowdale is now Featherdale’s capital “Harrow,” etc) established clear lines between its component states, and began to populate it with the characters who would help define my campaign’s overarching narrative.

Note: this revised map didn’t quite match my intentions even from the start, and would undergo a variety of further revisions in terms of both geography and names

Of course, before storming onward into ambitious realms of court intrigue and international conflict, my party first had to meet and establish their dynamics, while I had to learn how to direct a table for four goddamn hours, having previously capped out at perhaps a five minute speech before an audience. As such, our story began a little west of their region’s capital of Yhaunn, with a brief adventure that stuck closely to the realms I felt most comfortable: simply bounties, heists, and folk horror stories. Let’s pull up the text of my very first in-session copy, The Festival of Saint Agatha:

The party begins in a tavern in the farming village of Nettlebarn, nestled in the loosely affiliated Dalelands northwest of the Sea of Fallen Stars – Tasseldale, in particular. Each member has been traveling separately, but the bustle of the approaching festival has carried them all to this rowdy tavern. The normally sleepy village is currently boiling over with laughter and commotion, as travelers gawk and locals erect scaffolding or hang garlands of flowers from the storefronts

It is the Festival of Saint Agatha, an occasion whose presumably pious origins now serve as thin justification for a weekend of drinking, dancing, and outrageous costumes. The beasts that haunt these villagers’ winter nights are rendered comical in feathers and fur, with revelers in masks, ribbons, or even full animal dress parading in the streets

Along with being generally fun and also a little bit unnerving, the festival has provided a measure of anonymity to your party’s less human-shaped members. It is a time of beasts, miracles, and prizes. There is said to be a mock battle tourney staged near the festival’s conclusion, and in the meantime, the cavern is abuzz with the latest gossip. What mysteries and riches might await a worthy adventurer? I dunno, you guys figure it out

My first mistake: assuming we could figure out why the party is actually working together at some point down the line, rather than establishing a connection between them from the start. Granted, establishing that connection would likely have required a degree of confidence in characterization that none of my players had yet established, but the question of “why exactly are we friends” would continue to haunt the narrative for quite some time to come.

Note: I just found this map by googling for DnD village maps. Only later on would I begin subjecting players to my own cartographical abominations

My second mistake: providing an entirely new, uncertain party without some immediate prompt to direct their energy. Having rattled off this introduction, my players stared at me in silence, wondering what they were supposed to do just as I wondered what I was supposed to do back. In desperation, I decided to throw one of my planned NPCs at their table and see what happened. Let’s run through those:

Charlie the Half-Elf Bard

The party will at some point encounter a friend they gravitate towards, who will thereafter act as their guide, town liaison, and emotional connection point in the arc. If executed well, this person might even make the party genuinely care about the survival of this town. Give them a relatively lighthearted introduction to get the party on-board, and then have them possibly seed suspicions regarding the odd details of the festival. They will hopefully help with the party’s investigations (always dreamed of leaving town?), but regardless will likely be chosen as the Nettlebairn sacrifice. If saved, the Nettlebairn will consume the head reveler, completing its transformation

Lugdug the Halfling Drunk

Comic relief character, who is completely oblivious to the darker nature of the festival, and is just here to have fun. Gets entirely too friendly with the festival’s beastly revelers, and ends up becoming a sacrifice choice for the Nettlebairn

Charlie and Lugdug are friends; either will happily introduce you to the other, and Charlie will ask you to help save Lugdug if the party otherwise seems unlikely to discover the Nettlebairn ritual

Charlie’s a full person, and would go on to earn critical importance in the overall narrative. However, as I was soon to realize, full people generally take time to get to know, while loud caricatures tend to make better first impressions. And thus it was Lugdug who approached the table, realized through my best “ornery prospector” voice. He was, thankfully, an immediate hit; as it turns out, I’m pretty good at goofy voices and whimsical ramblings. A few sodden, neighborly comments from Lugdug helped deflate the tension of starting a new campaign, prompting the party to ask what they can currently see, and what activities might be available at this festival. Let’s find out:

Festivities

The party can engage in all manner of revelry: dancing, drinking contests, arm wrestling, target shooting, and even gambling. If the party spends sufficient time gambling, they can discover a cheater using a Charlatan’s Die, getting in a fight and earning the die themselves. One-Eyed Larry is the gambler

QUEST ROUTES:

• The bounty board has two bounties: pursue a beast that has been harassing the local livestock/farmers (Dire Wolf), or venture into the forest to retrieve a lost amulet (held by a small band of Goblins)

• The group can collectively participate in the non-lethal team melee tourney for a cash prize

• Investigating the festivities can also lead to the quest Flowering of the Nettlebairn

• Investigating the festivities can also lead to the quest Golden Harvest

As you can see, I was going for a sort of radial, Witcher-derivative board of attractions for this first town, hoping to provide the party as much flexibility as possible while still leaning on my fully plotted quests. They elected to engage in some healthy gambling, resulting in my first of many halting attempts to satisfactorily integrate gambling into DnD. You see, I actually quite enjoy playing cards, and feel the natural mix of camaraderie and suspicion that such activities engender is a perfect opportunity for deepening character bonds, with the central card game somewhat mitigating the anxiety of talking directly, character-to-character.

But for now, still near the beginning of my first session, I panicked immediately, and elected simply to convey gambling through flat dice rolls modified by sleight of hand rolls. Fortunately, my players rolled well, they earned themselves that Charlatan’s Die, and they immediately forgot about it forever. That’s how it often goes for low-grade magical knickknacks, prompting an eventual policy of generally tethering loot more specifically to characters, but at the moment I had other concerns. My party wanted to make some money, offering a perfect opportunity to debut my first heist quest, Golden Harvest:

The Festival of Saint Agatha is a time of revelry, good feelings, and general charity towards your fellow man: in other words, the perfect time to rob the pants off these bucktoothed yokels. By hovering around the bars, brothels, or poker tables of the festival, the heroes can learn of a plan to relieve the most wealthy attendees of their ill-gotten gains

Investigating the festival’s seedier corners will lead to rumors about Drais Craithim, a criminal mastermind who may or may not be planning to rob the event’s wealthiest attendees. Players will eventually be instructed to meet Drais’ contact in a nearby alley, where a FIGHT with syndicate enforcers (several Bandits) will result

Note: I actually drew this inn map in Paint five minutes ago – the original I just scribbled directly onto our play board. The slanted lines are doors, overlapping rectangles windows, and the arrow notates a stairwell

After achieving victory, Drais will reveal himself as an agent of the Xentarum, offering you a Greater Potion of Healing in apology for the confusion. He will reveal a plot to rob all larger vendors who have temporarily stored gold in-town in preparation for harvest auction. If the party convinces him to join forces, he will offer an INFILTRATION mission to secure vault codes from the grandest town inn. The party will have to sneak/battle past inn security to gain vault codes from wealthiest hotel rooms (including a BATTLE with hired guards (several Bandits)). The party will flee when further reinforcements arrive, led by the head vendor and his menacing second-in-command Tharg

The bank heist will go swimmingly if all prerequisites are accounted for, but the top harvest investor (also appears during inn) will arrive at the vault with mercenaries before the party can escape. BOSS BATTLE results, centered on the boss’s second-in-command (several Bandits plus a Bandit Captain)

• Defeating these enemies will result in a massive gold windfall (5k gold), as well as positive relations with the Xentarum. Drais will toss the party a Bag of Holding to carry their ill-gotten gains

Golden Harvest was my attempt to address a long-standing desire from our previous campaign: planning and executing a multi-stage heist, infiltration, or battle, making use of provided maps in order to establish an actual strategy, and thereby making the ensuing action feel more like a personal choice rather than a random encounter. In this, it absolutely succeeded. My maps of the inn with the security codes and the bank itself were greatly appreciated, and naturally encouraged the players to think about their abilities in more flexible ways, considering windows, sightlines, and verticality like never before.

Golden Harvest was so successful that it essentially established a precedent for both regular maps and dedicated heist missions, both of which allowed players to interact with the game world in novel, satisfying ways. As for harsh lessons I learned, the first is “be careful with your naming” – my party immediately decided Drais Craithim was Jason Statham, and have insisted on this truth ever since. Additionally, the dramatically satisfying resolution of stealing the security codes demanded my rogue first pass one stealth check, then fail the second – this actually happened, but it was a stern reminder of how fragile my control of specific dramatic turns truly is.

With Golden Harvest complete, my players ended their first session in good spirits, myself exhausted and limp with relief that it somehow didn’t go terribly. Little did I know that I’d been thrown a softball for this initial session – it would only be with the second, when Jarric first showed up, that this balancing act would reveal its true complexity.

So, that brings us through my first session with the party, wherein I miraculously avoided ruining everything forever (well, except for the campaign’s gold economy), in spite of having close to no idea what I was doing. I’ve quite enjoyed poking at my youthful assumptions of sessions past, and I hope you all had a reasonable time assessing my misadventures as well. If you’d like to continue exploring the Festival of Saint Agatha, let me know!